Slopes with their sparse green bushes and the black
asphalt of the freeway funnel me southward
so that I slide into a space between:
I’m on the road, in transit, transitory,
an atom moving with the other atoms.
Enclosure and exposure. Air is big
above me, clouds are moored up there
like great flat-bottomed barges. The smooth road
rises and falls, curves round, and then
on the horizon there’s that line of hills
inscribed against the pallor of the sky.
I’m not a Chinese sage on Thatch-Hut Mountain
but in my hidden heart I’m bowing now
before these things, before this passing world.
The Ten Thousand Things
1 May 2015